


Dreams

by Fierceawakening



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 07:52:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fierceawakening/pseuds/Fierceawakening
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little vignette about TFP Megatron's dreams. A continuation of some of my work discussing the fall of Vos and Megatron's role in and response to it, as well as a look at his emotions about the war he's been embroiled in for as long as anyone can remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams

Megatron didn't always dream of fire. 

Flame had filled most of his nights for as long as he could remember. Smoke rising from buildings bombed empty in Praxus, the scrawled emblem of the Decepticons the only thing his followers left among the wreckage. Acrid smoke and rising flame and his own troops marching endlessly, pouring from the Badlands in ranks he’d taught them himself to form. An orange sky over the Sea of Rust; the blazing conflagration that had nearly consumed the Hydrax Plateau and almost left him with nothing to call his.

He liked the dreams of conquest -- even the dreams of battle hard won. He would rise from those dreams with the shimmer of old victories gleaming against his plating and the rising flame crackling in his audio receptors. Those dreams gave him strength, even as he woke to the bitterness of exile and a war locked in a stalemate for thousands upon thousands of years. 

More often, though, he saw Kaon, its already smog-filled skies choked with the smoke of its own burning as the very seat of his Revolution fell to ash. He awoke from that dream with his claws clenching and his spark aflame, wanting nothing but to destroy -- to raze planets in the name of his lost city. 

And somewhere beyond the rage, a chilling cold. An ache for the things he had lost, so deep and so hollow that sometimes he awoke in the middle of the night with half his systems stalled. Warrior though he was, one thought paralyzed him: that even seeing Cybertron remade and the Decepticons’ new empire rising in its full force and splendor might never soothe the freezing throb of that old scar. 

He did not know if it was worse to dream of Vos.

Kaon was his -- _his_ home, _his_ city, _his_ beginning. But generations of oppression had twisted the city into a mockery of its former glory. Black smoke belched from the factories, clouding the skies and covering the buildings with their soot. After millenia of their creations being hidden by the smog, the mechs who designed and built them no longer cared about the metals they’d once used to craft the pyramids and towers. 

And even Kaon’s former splendor paled in comparison to Vos. Spires reached up from the surface, slender fingers piercing Cybertron’s skies, reaching for stars no smoke-clouds hid. And they were built of brilliant metal, shining iridescent in the light of the moon and suns. 

In his dreams, he watched them fall. He watched their filigree uncurl as the flames rose ever higher, crashing to the ground like rusted, blackened bones. He watched the Seekers wing down from the towers to defend their homes, only to be caught by blasts from weapons -- or from the ever-climbing fire, curling over their wings to drag them down and down. 

And in his dream he saw the young Winglord, circling the devastation, the whine of his engines a keening wail of loss.

_Starscream_ they called him. But they said he had been silent then.

Megatron didn’t know. He hadn’t been there. The defenders had turned the Decepticons away.

Megatron had returned, of course, once the city had fallen. He had promised Starscream the aid he had rejected. He had promised the Seekers their chance at vengeance. 

They had submitted to him then, of course. They’d had no other choice. 

And Starscream, more than any of them, had wanted his revenge. 

When Megatron dreamed of flame, he often dreamed of Vos. Of what he had done, turning away. Of letting the last great city burn -- so that its Winglord would finally belong to him.

When Megatron did not dream of flame, he also dreamed of Vos. 

He dreamed of the gossamer metal rising up from the ashen ground, the curling and delicate filigree taking its place anew in the skies. He dreamed of heat and light and the glow of its reflection, the flame of new forges, building, building. 

He dreamed of standing at the window in one of the high spires, looking down at Starscream’s city, at his planet, at everything the Decepticons had claimed for themselves and everything they’d taken back. 

He hadn’t courted Starscream properly, not in those early days of the war. Rushing his way into the City, still covered in Kaon’s soot and grime, warning the young ruler of his coming doom. 

As clever as Starscream was, it was no wonder the Winglord had refused him. 

In Megatron’s dreams he called Starscream to the window of the highest tower and waited for a long and silent moment as the former Winglord looked out at old skies made new again, spangled with stars that had always been waiting for him to return.

In Megatron’s dreams it was an offering: _I give you your city. Restored and rebuilt._

He had always offered it; Starscream hadn’t understood that Megatron held it in his open palm, to be saved or lost through the choice the Winglord made.

But someday, at the end of this long age of war, Megatron would present it to him again. Once broken, now mended. 

And the flames that filled his nights and the war that filled his days would at last become the gleam of sun and star on the spires of a reborn world.


End file.
